


My Age Has Never Made Me Wise

by demonicweirdo



Series: The Last Address Of Taliesin [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Immortal Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Water Creature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2793404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonicweirdo/pseuds/demonicweirdo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles turned to look at him, their noses almost brushing. “I always hoped that some time, somewhere, there'd be something worth living for.” He smiled. “I found it. No one has ever offered to help me become mortal again. No one bothered, no one cared. Some... liked me this way.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Age Has Never Made Me Wise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> There is one Star Wars reference in here somewhere, but considering I haven't watched any of the movies yet (I know, what a tragedy, I'm working on remedying that), it may be inaccurate :/  
> I apologise for any Briticisms? I don't know what the New Zealand equivalent is.

“He turned into a fucking _horse_ , Derek.”

“I know,” Derek replied dryly. “I was there.”

Scott scowled at him. “You know, you would be a much better alpha if your pack wasn't in mortal danger.”

Derek sighed and crossed his arms. “This is Beacon Hills. We're always in danger.”

Erica groaned. “Can we just talk to Deaton, please? He said he found something.”

Derek shot her a look, which she returned with an innocent shrug, before turning back to Scott with a glare. “You called Deaton?”

Scott returned his glare with one of his own. “Someone had to. So someone did, and he has something to help us defeat this guy.”

Erica raised her eyebrows. “Look, Derek, we can't rely on you killing this thing, or _us_ killing this thing, if we're all attracted to it. Don't even deny it,” she added, narrowing her eyes when Derek opened his mouth, “Boyd had to hold you back from jumping in that lake himself.”

Isaac walked in the kitchen and grabbed a packet of doritos, leaning against the counter casually. “What are you guys fighting about now?”

Derek shook his head and gave up. Being alpha to a bunch of insolent, rebellious teenagers was a job with no reward, it seemed like. Most of the time he couldn't claim to be an alpha, since they all just did what they wanted to, which was usually the opposite of what he wanted.

“Nothing,” he grumbled. “Get Boyd, Lydia, Allison, and Cora. We're going to Deatons.”

* * *

Lydia examined the book in front of her with intellectual curiosity. “Why me? I can't just scream at the book.”

“Taliesin is drawn to people of the sidhe, of which you are one. He'll hear you, and he'll come. I've heard of his moral ambiguity, so lets hope he's in a good mood,” Deaton replied. “I have met him once before. He is... interesting.”

“Great,” Derek snapped. “Is this summoning ritual safe for her?”

Deaton gave Lydia an assessing look, before nodding. “As long as Taliesin doesn't object to being summoned.”

“And if he does?” Allison asked, her eyes narrow with disapproval.

Deaton didn't answer, choosing instead to look at Lydia. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “I can do this.”

“No,” Derek said, shaking his head. “Not without a guarantee that you're safe.”

Lydia opened her eyes and glared at him. “Derek, I understand that every one of your alpha instincts are giving you a bad feeling, but people are _dying_. A girl I've known since preschool was drowned, and you expect me to just sit around and watch this town's population thin out when I could do something about it?”

They stared at each other for a while longer, her eyes challenging and stubborn. Lydia was always the wild card, since Jackson moved to London. Her and Allison didn't have the sort of unwavering loyalty that the wolves did, and Derek had to work harder to prove himself for them to accept him as their alpha. So it was times like these, when they challenged him, that he had to tread carefully. It was exhausting, but they were assets to the pack, and somewhere between high school and college, Lydia had turned into his second annoying little sister, and Allison helped Derek with Scott's stubbornness.

“Fine,” Derek assented, “but I'm not happy with this.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “It's funny how you think you have a say in the matter, Derek. Go sulk somewhere else, I don't need your broody face messing with my zen.”

* * *

Lydia stomped ahead of Derek, wrenching the loft door open and heading for the sofa. “What now?”

Derek shrugged. “We do what we have been doing. We make sure nobody goes into the woods.”

Cora snorted. “The only people who can do that, Derek, are Boyd and Scott.”

Derek pulled a face at her. The Nökken taking up residence in their lake was unfairly attractive, which he used to his advantage, to lure people into the water and drown them. They were in over their heads, since they couldn't bait the Nökken, they couldn't talk to him (he didn't speak, he only played the violin and smiled), and they couldn't harm him when he was in the lake, since he'd drown you before you took a second step. They had already lost twenty people, and the sheriff's department was working overtime to try and solve it. Their sheriff, John Stilinski, was in the know about supernatural creatures after being married to a witch for twenty years, but even with a police-enforced curfew and a mountain lion warning, he couldn't do anything to stop people wandering into the woods.

Isaac sat on the sofa next to Lydia and brushed a hand through his hair. “We can't just do nothing. We can't let it continue to kill people until it's apetite is sated, we have to do something.”

The agitation in his voice mirrored the agitation in all of them, the frustration. They weren't giving up, but they didn't have many other options.

“Look, next time I'm invited to a party, I expect music. Maybe a few snacks? Couldn't hurt to be hospitable.”

Derek whirled around to see a guy leaning against a column, peering at it and running a finger across the edge, before looking at them all and twirling his fingers in a wave.

The tension in the air made time stand still, no one moving or even breathing. Because this guy had honey-coloured eyes, an upturned nose, unruly hair, and pale skin. Paired with lips that were twisted into a smirk and moles that contrasted against his complexion, this guy, standing in Derek's loft, was _hot_ , his confidence sexy, and put together? He was the Nökken.

The fucking _Nökken_ was in Derek's loft.

A low growl came from the wolves, and Allison's hand edged down to her boot, where one of her knives was tucked.

The Nökken's smirk faded into a confused pout. “What? Do I have something on my face?” His accent was American, with a hint of _other_ that Derek couldn't identify. He rubbed at his face, at his mouth, and raised his eyebrows at them all. “Look, sorry I'm late, okay, jeez, calm down. I was at a party in Switzerland, and there was this girl and... you don't care.”

Derek stepped forward and let himself shift, wondering where the violin was, why the Nökken wasn't trying to lure him away into the woods, why the Nökken was _talking_.

Instead of his red eyes inspiring fear, the Nökken broke into a smile and clapped his hands together. “Wolves! Oh, I love werewolves. You throw great parties. Or funerals. I can never tell the difference.”

Erica shrieked out a growl and came at him, and it was as if the stillness in the air switched off in a heartbeat, and everyone knew what to do, advancing towards the Nökken, closing him in, hoping that now the damn creature was out of his lake he'd be easier to kill.

“Wait!” Lydia blurted, while the Nökken's eyes widened. He smelled surprised, not scared. In fact, he didn't smell like the lake at all. “He's not the Nökken.”

The Nökken frowned and took a step towards her, ignoring the growls of the wolves who had stopped when Derek did. Lydia was always berating him for rushing into a fight without listening to her and being surprised when he got hurt.

“A Nökken? That's what you're dealing with? Damn it, I thought I killed them all.”

Lydia faltered, her face uncertain and a little scared. “So you must be Taliesin?”

The guy, the Nökken or whatever, tilted his head. “You're the banshee. Why do you think I'm a Nökken, for god's sake? Though,” he mused, “I should be flattered. They're always so _hot_.”

Scott was the first to shift back to human, ignoring the warning Derek flowed through their pack bond. “Because you look exactly like him.”

Taliesin looked confused, and there was that pout again, dammit. Derek couldn't remain wary of this stranger if he looked so _cute_ when he was confused. “Someone stole my body? Someone _cloned_ me?” And now he just sounded outraged, which was still kinda cute and _focus, Derek_.

Derek needed to take control of the situation, being the alpha and all, so he shifted back and stood in front of Taliesin, blocking him off from the rest of the pack. “How do we know you're not the Nökken?”

Taliesin put a hand to his chest in mock-hurt. “I'm offended.” And then he grinned, and it was easy, and wide, and inviting, as he held out a hand. “I'm Taliesin, but my friends call me Stiles.” He frowned. “Well, I don't _have_ friends, but if I did, they'd call me Stiles, because I make sure everyone else does, so why wouldn't my friends?”

Derek had no idea what to do in the face of this guy, this lean muscled guy who had just babbled at Derek and didn't even seem to be embarrassed by it, or the fact that Derek was just staring at his hand and making no attempt to shake it.

Stiles sighed and dropped his hand. His fingers were long and thin and they looked... skilled. Deft, nim- “Look, Nökken are annoying, okay, I get it. I've dealt with them before. I thought I dealt with _all_ of them before, but it seems I've missed one.” He waved his hand around. “Considering I'm in Beacon Hills, you've talked to Deaton, and I told him to call on me when _absolutely_ necessary, I mean, I'm a busy guy. So I'm your last resort, your only hope, your Messiah, whatever the term is these days. Which means you've tried everything. Which means you _know_ everything about a Nökken. Including the fact that-”

“Can you get to the point?” Derek snapped, irritated and still very confused as to whether he needed to be killing this guy or not.

Stiles glare at him, and wow, it was an impressive glare. More ferocious than Lydia's, though less heated. It still served it's purpose, reminding Derek of the fact that Taliesin was dangerous, and morally ambiguous, and that they'd been hoping for him to be in a good mood so he didn't smite anyone.

“ _Including_ ,” Stiles continued, “the fact that Nökken don't speak, and I, obviously, speak a shitload. And they don't stray too far from their lake, they always carry their violin, yadda yadda.” He clapped his hands together again and peered over Derek's shoulder to the rest of the pack. “So, now that we've got that sorted, _alpha_ , can I get some introductions?”

Derek bristled at the sarcastic emphasis of his title, but, with a nod from Lydia, he held out his hand. “Derek.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows and smiled, a more genuine smile than any other Derek had seen with this guy's face. “It's nice to meet you, Derek. I suppose I should formally ask permission to enter your territory.”

Derek shook his head. “We summoned you here.”

Stiles looked past him to Lydia. “And here is the beautiful woman who did the summoning.”

“Lydia,” Lydia told him, holding out a hand. “I would say it's an honour, but I don't know much about you, so I don't know if you're very honourable,” she added, narrowing her eyes at Stiles as he shook her hand.

Stiles gave her a cheeky grin. “I'm very easy to read, though I've found lovers to prefer an enigma.” He shrugged.

Lydia tossed her hair. “We don't like secrets kept from us in the middle of a crisis.”

Stiles spread his hands out. “Hey, I'm helping, aren't I? I'll help you, I'll go back to Switzerland – wait, no, I want to go to Shanghai next, they have some sort of festival coming up and I promised this witch there I'd call her back some time in the next century... but the point is, I'll help you, I'll go to Shanghai, and you'll be left with a peaceful little village. Town. Whatever.”

* * *

Of course, Stiles and Scott became best friends. And of course, they bonded over annoying the fuck out of Derek.

“Can we stop fucking around and deal with the problem at hand here?” Derek snapped, interrupting the game they were playing on _Derek's_ television.

Stiles frowned at him. “Dude, I was winning,” he said as his avatar was stabbed in the stomach and fell off his horse.

Scott snickered and elbowed him in the ribs. “I've killed you five times.”

Stiles shrugged. “I killed you six times.”

“Did not.”

Stiles paused the game and twisted on the sofa until he faced Derek, resting his arms on the back of the sofa and resting his chin on his arms. “So, do you have a plan, O Mighty Alpha?”

Derek scowled. “That's what you're here for.”

Stiles huffed out a sigh. “Why do you expect me to do all the work?”

“Because we summoned you!”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at Derek. “I only came because that party was stifling, and old women kept trying to grope me.” He pulled a face. “And a few old men. And young women. And young men. Basically everyone. Groping me. Bad touching me. Wanting to get all up in this."

Scott scrunched up his nose. “Lie,” he accused, picking up on Stiles' stuttering heartbeat. Derek was sure, with Stiles, that he could control his heartbeat around wolves if he wanted to.

Stiles pulled a face at him. “Anyway,” he said, turning back to Derek with a smirk, “we need to find this clone trooper before he goes Order 66 on me.”

“Why would he go “Order 66” on you?” Derek asked with a frown.

“I don't know, it's just a reference.”

“A reference to what?” Scott asked. “What are you guys talking about?”

Stiles gave Derek a look, and Derek sighed. “Yeah, he hasn't seen Star Wars yet.”

Stiles' eyes widened, and he threw an arm around Scott's shoulders. “Dude, I'm sticking around after we defeat my evil twin, just so we can watch Star Wars. We'll have a marathon or something.”

Derek tried to keep his face blank of the foreign feeling, the light feeling, that Stiles was planning on sticking around a bit longer, but when Scott shot him a knowing look, he knew he didn't do very well at hiding it. Which, what was the knowing look about? What did Scott know? Why the hell was Derek still staring at Stiles as he talked animatedly about snacks and fake IDs for booze and this time he went to a Star Wars convention and almost hooked up with a Chewbacca that turned out to be the actual Big Foot?

* * *

“So what is he?”

“Lydia-”

“Don't tell me to mind my own business, Deaton. All I know is that he's dangerous, and he's powerful, and he won't tell me anything about what he is. So what is he?”

“He's... a poet, to say the least.”

* * *

Stiles tapped the picture of the lake off-centre from the map. “So one of you guys waltzes in there, distracts him, he'll be about to drown you, and then I do my thing, he dies, we're free.”

Derek was aware he was growling, and he stopped. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Stiles challenged.

“Why no – _Stiles_ , I'm not putting a pack-member in danger so you can “do your thing”. No way.”

Cora gave Stiles a curious look. “Maybe if you told us what your “thing” is...”

Stiles shrugged. “It's an incantation, really. A poem, whatever.”

Cora exchanged a look with Derek. “Why can't any of us do it?”

Stiles shook his head. “Because I'm special, I guess. It has to be me, but it has to be when he's distracted. Look, Nökken are like children. They just want food and company, and drowning people is a means to that end. They don't realise they're hurting anyone. They're sort of autistic, they don't understand how social expectations work. Like, how to make a friend _without_ killing them. This one is no different, except for some reason he must've seen me at some point and decided to use my face. Which is flattering, I guess. But, anyway, Nökken aren't good at focusing at more than one thing. So someone lets themself be bait, and trust me to do my thing. Or he will rip me apart before I open my mouth.”

“Why wouldn't he drown you?”

Stiles grinned. “I can't be enticed by magic, kid. I _am_ magic.”

Derek frowned in annoyance at being called a kid, because _come on_ , Stiles looks like he's barely out of high school. Derek knows he's old, but he never wanted to dwell on _how_ old, when Stiles would talk about his affairs with queens and adventures with supernatural creatures that had been extinct for more than a century. Something about it made Derek wonder if he – the pack – would end up one of Stiles' little anecdotes, or if, in the scheme of things, in the excitement of Stiles' life, if they wouldn't even register in Stiles' memory. He hoped so, selfishly, because Stiles was something else. He walked into people's lives and rearranged the furniture to fit him, and Derek knew that when Stiles left, there would be a Stiles-shaped hole in everyone's lives. And it wasn't because he had connected with the pack, though he had, and it wasn't because in the few short days that he had been with them Derek found himself aching for more than the short conversations and cheeky grins. It was because he was already memorable in a few short seconds of meeting someone.

Derek checked his watch and clapped Scott on the shoulder where he was napping on the couch, exhausted by the patrolling that was only rotated with Boyd. Derek felt guilty, working his pack-members so hard, but it was necessary.

“You're up, Scott. Go relieve Boyd.” Derek tossed him his wallet. “Buy yourself a coffee on the way.”

Stiles lifted a hand. “See ya, Scotty.” Scott grunted and shuffled out, and Derek hoped that he'd be lucid enough to turn humans away when they strayed too far into the woods.

“I'll do it,” Cora said, shrugging.

Derek shook his head. “No, you won't.”

Cora glared at him. “You can't stop me, Derek. I'll be bait, and you'll deal with it.”

Derek flashed his eyes red, ignoring the amused expression on Stiles' face. “And what if you drown, huh? What if Stiles doesn't kill him in time?”

Cora let her eyes bleed into yellow. “Derek, I can take care of myself. I did so for seven years.”

“And I thought you were dead!”

Cora set her jaw stubbornly and turned to Stiles, who had his lips parted in surprise. “I'm doing it, and you're not screwing up.”

Stiles closed his mouth and raised an eyebrow. “Yes ma'am,” he replied with a sarcastic salute, his tone impressed.

Derek scowled at the map as Cora sauntered off, slumping his shoulders when she slammed the door behind her.

“Derek?” Stiles said hesitantly, concerned.

“I'm losing control of my pack,” he mumbled, closing his eyes and feeling so, so tired.

Stiles snorted. “I don't think you ever had it.” A hand covered Derek's, and Derek's fingers twitched. Stiles' fingers were longer than his, and warm, gentle. “Look, Derek, you've done a shitload for this pack. You've sacrificed a lot. Erica and Scott could be dead by now, with their little human diseases. Isaac might not have survived another year with his father. Boyd is happy, under that gruff, silent exterior. Cora has a brother again, because _you_ found her. She told me how you were studying history in college before your sister died. You gave that all up to make a pack and help these kids.” His voice was accenting, litling with what Derek had identified as Irish, by the end.

Derek lifted his head, and found he couldn't break eye contact with those liquid-honey eyes. “I feel like I'm just leading them to their deaths.”

Stiles made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. “Dude, I've been around for a long time. I've met a lot of alphas, and none of them seemed to care as much about how they led a pack than you. You just have to let them make their own choices, let them take the burden from you once in a while.” He pulled a face. “Now can we stop with the pep talk? I'm hungry and we're about to battle a vicious water-creature with sinister wiles and supernaturally good looks.” He grinned, and Derek found himself smiling back.

Lydia walked in, and the spell between them, that feeling that Derek dared to hope was mutual, broke. She gave Stiles a cautious look, not unlike the ones she had been giving him all week, and sat down in a chair. “Just passed Cora. She volunteered as bait?”

Stiles nodded, and Derek tried not to glare at the map, because the map was an inanimate object that didn't deserve such anger directed at it.

Lydia tilted her head. “Huh. Okay. And you're going to recite a poem?” Her eyes narrowed a little, and Derek wondered what she was getting at, because she seemed to be watching Stiles' reaction.

And Stiles tensed, on guard, sensing Lydia's suspicion. “It's more of a rap, really. I'm getting Scott to beatbox.”

They stared at each other unrelentingly, and it seriously got creepy after a full two minutes.

“Whatever you guys are fighting about, leave it until _after_ we've saved this town,” Derek growled.

Lydia clenched her jaw. “We're not fighting.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “We're not?”

Lydia tossed her curls back and glanced at the map. “So what's the plan?”

* * *

Of course Derek wasn't going to let his sister become bait.

So as soon as she was ready to step into the Nökken's view, with the pack surrounding at a safe distance and Stiles ready to chant whatever before she drowned, Derek grabbed her hand, yanked her back, and walked forward instead. She reached out to stop him before finding that her arms weren't cooperating, and then her legs, and she fell to the ground. Derek took his gloves off, which were slathered in kanima venom, and looked down at her.

“Sorry,” he said, wincing at her glare. And then he stepped out of the trees, to spot Stiles, sitting on a rock in the middle of the lake, wearing only a pair of sweatpants and strumming a violin.

 _No, not Stiles, the Nökken,_ his mind tried to tell him, but the music, it was so sweet. It reached out to him, it drew him in, it was so sad that Derek wanted – _needed_ – to make the player happy. It looked like Stiles, it had that same look on it's face that Stiles got when he smelled of loneliness or sorrow, and Derek always hated it, always wanted to change it.

The Nökken saw Derek and gave him a dreamy grin, one that was full of such happiness that Derek was stumbling forward, because he needed to see him, he needed the Nökken to not be lonely.

His foot splashed in water and he stopped, because something was wrong. For some reason, he wasn't meant to get this far. It was wrong, he wasn't meant to reach the water.

Derek looked down at his foot, away from the wide grin and the honey eyes, and frowned. The water was pulling him down, pulling him forward, pulling him in. He tried to lift his foot out but nothing was happening.

* * *

Stiles dropped out of the tree as soon as he saw Derek walk into the water. His mind had wandered, a side-effect of living too long and thinking too deeply, and he hadn't tuned back into the world until he heard the splash, and he saw _Derek_.

It was meant to be Cora, not Derek. Cora was meant to submit to the Nökken's music. Cora was meant to be bait.

Stiles looked around and sensed it before he saw it: Cora, her elbow smeared with kanima venom, lying on the ground and struggling desperately, her neck craning and her eyes clouded over with the lure of the Nökken.

Stiles was meant to recite his poem _before_ Cora touched the water, but instead, he had let himself be distracted, and Derek was knee-deep already.

Stiles' eyes narrowed on the Nökken, the fucking clone of himself. It wasn't accurate. The moles weren't in the right place, and Stiles was certain his eyes weren't that light.

The Nökken's eyes widened when they caught Stiles', and despite the terror that ran cold down his spine, Stiles was grateful, because Nökken's couldn't concentrate on two things at once.

Except, Derek was still being pulled into the water, still struggling against an invisible hold, still going deeper and deeper. Which meant that this Nökken... _shit,_ this Nökken was one of the New Age ones.

Stiles was one of the few creatures in the world that could dispel Nökkens, but he went about it leisurely. When it came to being summoned, he didn't always take the job in favour of finding the next party, the next war, whatever.

A century ago, the Nökkens were dying out, so they figured they'd mate with different supernatural creatures to create a more evolved race of Nökken. Stiles found Nökken with tentacles, with claws, with fish tails, and with wings. That was when Stiles started to actively wipe them out.

This one was obviously normal-looking, so it must've been part of the line that had descended from a human-Nökken pairing. Which were the worst to defeat, because their outlook was even more childish. They didn't understand that they were killing people. They were, basically, innocent. Innocent and lonely.

And they could talk.

“Taliesin!” the Nökken exclaimed, standing up. “It's great to see you again!” Stiles winced at the earnest expression on his face.

“I don't believe I've had the pleasure...” Stiles replied awkwardly, his mind racing for a solution even as Derek went deeper.

The pack let out a collective growl and Stiles could hear Allison draw her bow. They could help, sure, if this was a regular, standard Nökken. But there was no guarantee that they would be able to survive an encounter with a New Age Nökken. Stiles looked to Derek, and made the decision to put up an invisible barrier between them and the pack. Because to Derek, his pack were his life, those kids were his family. Despite what Stiles told him about allowing them freedom of choice to make their own sacrifices, Stiles was selfish in not wanting them to get involved. Yeah, he had gotten attached.

The Nökken's face fell, which was so sad that it sent a twinge through Stiles, even as he resolved to kill him. “It's Morgan?”

Stiles shrugged. “Sorry, Morgan. I don't remember.” He tapped his head. “I am kinda old, though, dude. Met a lot of people. Don't take it so harshly.”

The childish grin returned. “I just... Sorry about the body. You attract people, Taliesin. And I'm lonely, I wanted to attract people.”

Stiles nodded and edged closer. “Like my friend?” he asked cautiously, tilting his head at Derek. The water was at his chest.

Morgan peered at Derek, narrowed his eyes. “He's handsome. He'd be nice company. You don't realise how lonely it is down there, in the water. He can help me, he's different to the others.”

“The others that didn't survive, you mean?”

Morgan nodded. “Yeah. But this one will. He'll survive and we'll be friends.” He frowns. “Or lovers. I've never had a lover. I've heard they're fun. Better than a right hand.” Morgan burst out laughing, and it was a sweet, childish sound. It broke Stiles' heart because no amount of explaining will enlighten a Nökken to the fact that there was never a “different” person. They _all_ died. No exceptions. Unless humanity somehow evolved in the future to breathe under water, there would never be exceptions. Derek couldn't breathe underwater.

“Can Derek breathe underwater?” Stiles shouted across to Cora, while Morgan was smiling at Derek.

“No!” she shouted. “Get him out of there, Stiles! You idiot!”

Stiles glanced back at Morgan. “See. She said he can't breathe underwater.”

Morgan shrugged. “We'll see.”

Stiles took another step closer, the lake water lapping at his ankles. It wouldn't pull him down, but the moment Stiles made a wrong move, Morgan would tear him apart with his music, and Derek would drown anyway.

Derek looked up suddenly, looked right at Stiles, not Morgan, his eyes frantic and red. And then he nodded, once.

“I'll stay with you,” Derek called out to Morgan, not taking his eyes off Stiles, the water slowing his descent as Morgan frowned at him. “I'll stay, okay? You won't be lonely again.”

“Really?” Morgan asked him, excited.

Derek swallowed and closed his eyes. “Yes.”

He started talking again, but Stiles didn't listen. This was the distraction he needed, so he used it to gather his power, feeling it flow through his veins and hum.

And then he opened his mouth. “ _Nyk, Nyk, Naal i vatn. Jomfru Maria kastet styaal i vatn! Du s_ _æ_ _k,_ _æ_ _k flyt!_ ”

The look Morgan gave him was pure anguish, and his power, his lure, washed over him. Sorrow, immense sorrow. And unimaginable loneliness, at least for someone like Derek. Not so much unimaginable for Stiles.

Morgan was fading, sobs bubbling up from his throat, before he turned angry. Nökkens were never angry, so Stiles guessed it was the human side, the side that felt betrayed.

His power drew back weakly. Stiles knew Morgan wouldn't have enough to defeat him, not anymore.

But Morgan thrust it out, towards Derek, before fading away completely.

Derek went limp, falling back into the water, and a split second later Stiles couldn't make him out in the water.

Stiles withdrew the barrier for the rest of the pack, and paid them no more attention.

“Shit,” he muttered, slipping out of his hoodie. “I haven't done this for eighty years”

He dived in anyway, because eighty years ago he was an excellent swimmer, and it took him a few seconds - precious, life saving seconds – to assume a form of competency in swimming before he reached his senses out, feeling for Derek in the dark water.

A dark blur was a few feet in front of him, sinking fast, so he went for it, kicking his feet out and not letting himself relax even as his arms are filled with the muscular torso of the alpha werewolf he had grown so attached to.

Stiles kicked up, his lungs screaming across the distance between there and the surface, and sucked in a deep breath when he broke the surface. Derek was heavy in his arms, and he wasn't breathing, his heartbeat faint under Stiles' exploring fingers.

Stiles tread water for a few seconds, because his muscles were aching, and he recognised the ache as something that wouldn't last the swim to the shore.

His breathing sped up when he realised that he couldn't make it. The Nökken's power had weakened him, wearied him, and knocked Derek out. They couldn't make it, and Stiles was going to be the cause of this man's death, and he couldn't have that.

He struggled towards the shore anyway, knowing that he wouldn't make it, pulling Derek's body with him.

When the black spots covered his vision he still pulled, but when he felt his arms shaking and going boneless, he gave up.

Stiles pushed Derek's body with the last shreds of his strength, gasping out, “I'm sorry,” before the water filled his mouth and he blacked out from exhaustion.

* * *

Derek woke up coughing up water, and it wasn't a pleasant sensation. Someone was cradling his head, and someone's hands were on his chest, and someone barked out a tiny laugh of relief, resting her head on his chest, her blonde curls tickling his chin.

“What...” Derek rasped, struggling to sit up even as his muscles protested. “Where's Stiles?”

Erica sat up and Isaac helped him to stand on shaky legs. “Boyd's getting him out.” She bit her lip. “Derek... We got you out first. You're our priority. He's been under longer than you, he might-”

Derek pushed past her and turned to the lake, to find Boyd pulling a gangly, pale, motionless body out of the lake. He rushed forward, and after his legs steadied and the world no longer felt like it was spinning diagonally, he found himself kneeling beside the cold body on the ground.

Derek shook Stiles' shoulder, not daring to listen for a heartbeat because he didn't want to hear an empty ribcage. It was obvious Stiles had gone after him, after Derek collapsed in the water.

“Stiles,” he said urgently, shoving at the shoulder before reaching up to hold the man's face in his hands. “Stiles, wake up.”

Boyd pushed him gently to the side and started pumping at his chest, and Derek winced when he heard a rib crack. Boyd blew into Stiles' mouth briefly and returned to the chest compressions, not saying anything, completely focused on what he was doing.

Derek sat back on his heels, watching what was happening with a sense of helplessness. He had no idea what to do, and he was the _alpha_ , he had to know what to do. It was situations like these that he had to take charge, and he could think of a thousand commands for his pack, but all he could do is watch.

And then Stiles coughed, and spewed water all over Derek in something akin to a sob, and everything was fine.

* * *

Stiles woke up, immediately alert and functional. He first registered lack of oxygen, and worked to remedy it. The sharp pain in his chest couldn't be fixed straight away, however, so he tried to ignore it, and succeeded. After living as long as he had? You learnt to suppress pain.

He sat up so quickly the world started turning, but there was a warm hand on his arm and Boyd's relieved face was a beautiful sight to behold. His snort broke through the water in Stiles' ear. So he had said that out loud.

“Stiles?”

Stiles turned his head to see Derek, alive. _Alive_ , thank God.

He jumped up, wincing at the pull of pain in his chest and swaying slightly when the world tilted again. Derek stood up slower, a hand at the small of his back to steady him.

Stiles looked around. The pack were there, Scott was soaked, Boyd was soaked, and the rest were fine. Accept for Cora, who was leaning against Isaac and stretching her arm cautiously, a dark look on her face.

His hoodie was on the ground, and he grinned at it, picking it up and throwing it over Derek's shoulders. “There. Now you're warm.”

Derek gave him a strange look. It was filled with awe, Stiles thought, and wonder, and amazement, and worship, and okay, Stiles was just inflating his ego but hey, he nearly drowned, okay? He's entitled.

Stiles frowned. “Now I'm cold. Isaac, give me your jacket,” he ordered, stretching his neck and hearing it crack.

Once the leather jacket was reluctantly deposited on his shoulders, Stiles put a hand on Boyd's shoulder. “Thank you, my man, my main man, Vernon. Dude. You saved my life, so kudos.”

Boyd nodded and even flashed him a bright smile, which _whoa_ , Stiles got a smile from _Boyd_. His head was still a little fuzzy.

He turned back to Derek. “Right. You.”

Derek looked guilty, which was strange. Maybe it was his default setting, who knows? “I'm-”

Stiles held up a hand. “Are you going to apologise? I don't even know why you would feel the need to apologise, so, you know, shut it. I was in the middle of saying a thing, and you interrupted my thing. It was a very good thing, and then your stupid gruff voice and your stupid beautiful face interrupted it and _oh my God_ I'm really dizzy. I'm going to sit down now.”

Stiles sat down.

“Where was I?”

He looked up when Derek didn't answer, choosing to continue to look at him with that weird look on his face.

Oh, right. The question was rhetorical.

“I was kidnapped by pirates once. I was drowned all the time, they thought it was fun. At the time, I disagreed, but hindsight and all. No, hang on, it's still not fun. Anyway, the point I'm making isn't a point at all, so I'll make one now.”

Stiles fixed Derek with a serious look, this mind gaining clarity the longer he spoke. He realised he was reverting back to his Irish accent, and worked to fix it, because Americans were dense when it came to understanding people with accents.

“I fixed your little Nökken problem, so great. Sorry I was a little late, my mind was wandering. I have to work on that, but yeah, it's my fault you almost drowned and I feel really bad. Not that it helps any. This guy, Morgan - “ Stiles stuttered on the name, the backlash of Morgans power, of his sadness and his loneliness making both Stiles and Derek wince simultaneously, “-was more powerful than I anticipated. But he's dead now, so he won't turn into horses and drown people any more.”

Stiles looked up at the rest of the pack. “Derek and I are going to be really, _really_ sad for the next few days, because what I did was horrible and I'm probably going to hell for it. But you'll just need to worry about Derek, because I'm going to disappear for a while.”

“Stiles, don't – you can stay,” Derek said, his eyes flashing red for a second as though he were giving an order.

Stiles shook his head. “I'll be back to watch Star Wars, but I don't know when. Sometimes I lose track of time. The last time I said I'd be back in a week and I returned twenty years later.”

Lydia stepped forward with determination, and Stiles thought _This is it_.

“ _I have been a multitude of shapes,_ ” she recited, “ _before I assumed a consistent form._

_I have been a sword, narrow, variegated,_

_I have been a tear in the air,_

_I have been in the dullest of stars._

_I have been a word among letters-_ ”

“ _-_ _Bhí mé leabhar ar an tionscnaimh,_ ” Stiles finished. “You figured it out.”

That was his cue to leave, and he did.

* * *

Derek stared, wide-eyed, at the patch of wet leaves and dirt that Stiles had been sitting on, that he had just vacated. Where he just disappeared.

The words, the poem Lydia recited. He recognised it, how could he not? He majored in history before coming back to Beacon Hills. _Taliesin Ben Beirdd._ The Brythonic bard.

_I have been a book in the origin._

Stiles was _old_ . Stiles was _fucking_ old. Stiles was... Derek's head hurt too much to do the math.

Derek didn't see him the next day. He woke up surrounded by the smell of him, of old parchment and faint ozone, and his heartbeat picked up for a second before he realised that some time in the night, he had wrapped himself around the hoodie that Stiles left behind. Derek couldn't bring himself to throw it away, or wash it, or hide it from himself. Yeah, he was self-aware of how creepy he was.

The whole pack grumbled at Lydia, who was unrepentant. “Stiles would've left anyway,” Derek told them. “He said he'd be back, stop angsting and get out of my house. I'm not a babysitter and you all have exams coming up.”

The day after that, Derek thought he caught Stiles' scent, but it was twisted and sour and it faded away too soon for Derek to be sure. He wandered around town aimlessly anyway.

Three days after the Nökken had died, the sadness had lifted. The loneliness, not so much. Which pissed Derek off, because he was pining over the absence of a two-thousand year old poet that had probably long forgotten his promise to Scott and the rest of them and returned to his parties and witches.

“We could summon him again,” Allison suggested.

“No,” Derek replied. “If he didn't want to come back, he wouldn't, summoning or not.”

The fourth day, Scott ran up the stairs to the loft since the elevator had broken the previous day (Cora had been in a bad mood), and burst into the kitchen, out of breath and excited. “He's in town.”

“Who?” Derek asked, his brain just catching on to the fact that Scott had reached for his sandwich and snatching it back.

Scott rolled his eyes. “Larry King. Who do you think?”

Derek took a deep breathe and handed put his sandwich down, out of Scott's reach. “Where?”

Scott grimaced. “Sheriff's department. In a cell.”

Derek raised his eyebrows at Scott. “For _what?_ ”

* * *

“Indecent exposure and drunken disorderly?”

Stiles widened his eyes in mock-innocence. “I forgot that the absence of clothes is illegal now.” His accent had thickened now, but his words were articulate, the only sign of his intoxication being the stench of vodka clinging to his clothes and his breath. “America, huh? Land of the free and the clothed.”

Derek sighed and looked back at the sheriff. “How much to bail him out?”

“Hey!” Stiles protested. “What if I like it here, huh? What if I want to stay?”

“That would be the problem, Stiles,” Derek replied. Stiles sounded completely serious about wanting to stay. It wasn't a challenge, it was self-flagellation.

The sheriff shook his head. “You say he's supernatural? He isn't violent and if he's as powerful as you claim, he could kill me in a second.”

“I can,” Stiles confirmed, unfazed by Derek's glare. “But you're a nice guy, John. And I don't like killing.” His face went blank and he shuffled away to sit on the bed. “I want to stay here.” His voice was soft and sad and almost child-like.

“Why?” Derek asked him, curling a hand around the bars of the cell.

Stiles looked down at his hands. “Because I'm a murderer, Derek. I'm a bad, terrible, no good person, and a lousy drunk. I talk too much and I forget important things and I've killed. Good people. Morgan was good.”

“Morgan tried to kill me. He succeeded in killing twenty other people,” Derek reminded Stiles, his throat closing up with emotion because this Stiles was broken. This was Taliesin, the immortal poet, showing the world how much it had broken him.

Stiles shook his head. “You saw him, Derek. He was pure. He was _lonely_. I was the only one who could ever understand, and I was his killer. I was all of their killers.”

The sheriff unlocked the cell and nodded to Derek, closing the door behind him as he left.

Derek sat on the bed next to Stiles. “We miss you.”

Stiles looked at him, his amber eyes dark and sad. “Okay,” he mumbled quietly, letting Derek lift him to his feet, leaning on Derek, letting Derek support him to the car.

The drive in the car was quiet, Stiles staring out the window, ignoring Derek's looks. But once they got out of the car and started up the stairs, Stiles huffed out a weary sigh and forced a cheerful expression on his face.

* * *

Stiles received hugs from everyone, the whole pack, including Lydia. And when they sat down, politely ignoring the stink of vodka that clung to his clothes, Stiles realised that he had friends.

“I haven't had friends in fifty years,” he told them.

Boyd raised an eyebrow, and Scott frowned. Derek's face remained blank, which was curious, but Stiles was going to tell a story, so he let himself ponder it later.

“They keep dying, and every time I tell myself I'll stop. Never again. Because it fucking hurts when people die.” Stiles let out a bitter laugh, but no one else moved, content to let him talk. It was the quietest he had ever heard them.

“When I was a baby, I was thrown into the sea, in a barrel. So I never knew my mother. I'm technically Welsh, but I was raised by Irish pirates. The ones who thought it fun to drown me a little each day.

"When I was a teenager, I escaped from them. I mean, who wants to be a pirate? Their idea of hygiene is no hygiene, seriously. Anyway, this man, Elffin, adopted me, trained me up. Turns out I had the gift of prophesy, when I had a dream of our king dying. The king didn't listen to me, what a surprise. He was always a dense asshole.

"Then he died, and I became famous. Sometimes I would weave my prophesies into my poetry. I liked testing people, liked it when they tried to figure out the future in my verses. I was stupid, and arrogant. I shouldn't have been so obvious, I shouldn't have tried for fame.

"I caught the eye of a god. His name was Aengus, and I suppose you could call him my first love. He was, after all, a god of love, but he was also a trickster. He told me the only way we'd be together forever, the only way he could love me, would be if I became immortal. And he told me to accompany King Arthur on his quest for the Holy Grail.

"I found it first, before Arthur. Drunk from it. Never felt any different. And then Aengus showed up and stole the Grail, told me he needed it for his latest lover, told me to have fun with my immortality, to have fun spending the rest of my days alone. And he left.”

There was a brief, heavy silence. Isaac scrunched up his nose. “Aengus is a stupid name, anyway. He sounds like a pompous jerk.”

Stiles snorted. “He's worse. He's the guy who ruined my life by making sure it never ended. I'm not going to tell you my whole life, because while I live forever, you guys do not. But, living as long as I have, you learn things. Pick up a few skills. I taught myself a few forms of magic, nothing major. I learned how to use my words as my power, and that's how I can defeat Nökken.”

Derek unfolded his arms and stood up straight from where he was leaning against the column. “You're like them, aren't you? The Nökken?”

Stiles nodded, looking down at his hands. “They're lonely, and when they let people near them, when they lure people in, they kill them.” He looked up at them. “That's what I do. I end up killing you, or leaving you behind. Either way, I always watch you die. Nökken... They just want someone to spend their lives with, but they can't have that. Neither can I.”

There were tears in Scott's eyes, which confused Stiles. _He_ was the one who was doomed to spend an eternity watching everyone he loved and will love die. Scott had no reason to cry. It was probably that empathy thing.

Stiles stood up. “Well, that's over, what a relief. Who wants pizza?”

“Have you tried finding the Grail to reverse it?”

Stiles turned back to the owner of that voice. “What?” he asked Cora.

She shrugged. “It could reverse the immortality. So find it again.”

Stiles shook his head. “I've spent my whole life trying to find it, Cora. It's not like in the movies, where they find it within a week. It's hidden too well.”

Lydia huffed. “Your mind is too old and too sad. Ours aren't.” She met his eyes calmly. “Let us help you.”

They were his friends. They wanted to help him. Stiles found the only thing he could do was nod. Even though he could almost taste the pain they'd leave behind when they left him.

* * *

“I'm inclined to get you to sign my history books.”

Stiles looked up at Derek as he sat down next to the poet, cross-legged on the hard wooden floor. He gave Derek a smirk. “So tell me, Derek Hale, how does it feel to bask in the presence of a god?”

Derek snorted. “You're not a god. You're a kid with an inflated ego who never grew up.”

Stiles laughed then, he erupted with it, his body shaking and his eyes wide, as if he were surprised by Derek's humour. Why was everyone always surprised?

“You're refreshing,” Stiles told him, once he'd calm down, the amusement lingering in his voice. “You humble me, Derek. I love it.”

Derek flushed and looked down at the beer in his hands. It was aconite-less, so he wouldn't get drunk, but he had gotten used to the taste, so he liked to drink it without the intention of getting drunk.

“People ask me why I never killed myself when everyone else I loved died around me,” Stiles said, his voice steady and conversational.

“Why didn't you?” Derek found himself asking. Maybe it was insensitive, but Derek didn't think Stiles minded. Stiles seemed grateful to have people to talk to.

Stiles turned to look at him, their noses almost brushing. “Because I always hoped that some time, somewhere, there'd be something worth living for.” He smiled. “I found it. No one has ever offered to help me become mortal again. No one bothered, no one cared. Some... liked me this way.”

Derek found himself lost in Stiles' eyes. They were lighter today, not as much despair evident in them. “I like you,” he murmured. “But I'd like you better happy.”

Derek didn't miss how Stiles' eyes flicked down, to his mouth, and then back up.

“There's a chance I'd just... fade away,” Stiles said, his voice no louder than a whisper, his voice hoarse. It sent shivers down Derek's spine. “That my years would catch up with me and I'd crumble to dust. But I want to take that chance.” His smile was wistful, almost sad, this time. “I'm sick of seeing this face in the mirror every day, never changing. I want to take that chance because either way, I get to rest.”

Derek nodded, and their noses brushed together. “You...” His breath hitched. “You deserve it.”

Stiles closed the gap, and Derek saw it coming, but it didn't stop his mouth going slack in surprise. Stiles took the opportunity to run his tongue along Derek's bottom lip, before slipping it in Derek's mouth and taking control.

Derek let him, preferring to lose himself in the sensations, to let someone take control of _him_ for a change. This beautiful, broken man, and Derek counted himself lucky to have this.

Stiles drew back with a light bite to Derek's lip, and when Derek opened his eyes, Stiles was smiling, wide and genuine, his lips redder than they were before.

Stiles licked his lips. “That... wow. I want to do more of that. Can we do more of that?”

Derek stilled, his mind racing over the fact that _yes_ , he got to have this, and Stiles wanted more of it.

Stiles frowned uncertainly in Derek's silence, but before Derek could reassure him, he said, “I suppose we should do that thing first. You know, where people flaunt their partners in front of other people in a show of dominance and pride. Like a peacock.”

Derek blinked. “You want to date me?”

Stiles squinted at Derek. “We could start in the deep end and have sex, if you want, but I like to progress towards that. Sex is an unhealthy foundation for a relationship.”

Derek blinked again. “You want to have a relationship? With me?” _And sex,_ his mind supplied.

Stiles rolled his eyes before going serious. “Stop me at any time if you don't want to. But, spoiler alert, if I date you, there'll be a lot more of that,” he said, gesturing between their mouths, “and I know you liked that. I'm good at reading people.”

Derek narrowed his eyes at Stiles. “Are you blackmailing me to go out with you with kissing?”

Stiles tilted his head. “Is that what they still call it? I thought it was “snogging” or “Frenching” or something.”

“Don't be cute,” Derek told him.

Stiles grinned, and dear Lord, he had dimples, it was unfair. “You can take the man out of the cute but you can't take the cute out of the man.”

Isaac bounded past them to the kitchen. “That didn't even make sense,” he called over his shoulder.

Stiles pulled a face at Isaac's retreating back and turned back to Derek. “Do you want me to court you formally? I'm a bit rusty. I mean, our ways of courting are very different. I hear wolves tend to leave dead animals for their mates or something.”

Derek heard Isaac spit out whatever he was drinking and burst out laughing. “We're not actual wolves, Stiles.”

Stiles sighed in relief. “Thank God. I get queasy when I see dead bunnies.”

“Why me?” Derek asked, watching Stiles' face, for his reaction.

Stiles frowned. “Why you what? I want to date you. You're date-able.”

Derek looked down at the grooves in the floor, tracing them with his eyes. “You're two thousand years old. We don't exactly have shared life experiences.”

Stiles' eyes were sad. “We both fell in love with the wrong person,” he said softly.

Derek's stomach lurched like it did whenever Kate was mentioned. “Is that a good reason to start a relationship with someone?”

Stiles sighed again, slightly exasperated. “You asked for a shared life experience. I gave you one. That's not the reason I want to date you. I want to date you because you're... brave. Like, wow, really brave. You're good-looking, which is an added bonus. You're loyal and selfless. Sometimes too selfless, but it's admirable. You're smart, strategical, and cautious. You've forgiven Allison for trying to kill you and your whole pack, Lydia for using you to resurrect your crazy uncle, Erica and Boyd for leaving. You have a tragic backstory to rival all the villains in all the stories, and yet you're the hero.”

Derek shook his head. “I'm not a hero.”

Stiles smiled, a tiny, private smile. “Most heroes think that, Derek, and that's what makes them heroes. You're humble as hell. And I'm arrogant as hell, we balance each other out.”

Derek touched Stiles' cheek, running a finger down it. His skin was soft, but solid, firm. Real. “How could I deserve you?”

“I should be asking that question, but the truth is, Derek, I'm tired of denying myself simple things like this. Being with someone. And you,” he added, touching his fingertip to Derek's nose with a forced smirk that turned sad in an instant, “are worth the hurt when you leave me behind. I've known you for a week and I can tell you that already. I'm good at reading people.”

“I don't want to leave you,” Derek said, pulling away slightly so he can put some distance between them and clear his head. “We'll find it, I promise.”

“I'm not holding you to that, don't be an idiot.”

“I swear on my Camaro.”

Stiles gasped. “Sweet mercy, not the Camaro!” He grinned. “You must be pretty damn confident.”

Derek shrugged and stood up. “If it means you stop smelling lonely and sad, I'm finding this thing.”

Stiles frowned. “What does loneliness smell like?”

“Cats,” Isaac butted in from the kitchen. “Cats and ice cream.”

“Fuck you, Lahey, _I do not smell likes cats!_ "

**Author's Note:**

> Okay: Taliesin Ben Beirdd is a real historical figure. I've switched a few things around in his life to suit myself and the fic. That poem? Real, as well. All of it can be found on wikipedia.  
> I played around with the Swedish myth of the Nökken.  
> This fic kinda has a message? About how good or bad are subjective. The Nökken's mind wasn't mature enough to realise how much damage and bad he was doing. And although killing it seemed like the "good" thing to do, Stiles felt really bad about it, and had a bit of a moral crisis, which would've happened every time he killed one because of their magic influencing him.  
> I really hoped you guys enjoyed this :) [And here's my tumblr](http://unadulterated-exasperation.tumblr.com/) if you wanted to come and say hi


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